


In Strict Obedience to Her Commands

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Category: Lucifer (Comic)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Memory Magic, Post-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:24:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beatrice and Mazikeen, after the fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Strict Obedience to Her Commands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mrinalinee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrinalinee/gifts).



> This fic was written for [Mrinalinee](http://mrinalinee.livejournal.com/) in the [2011 Three Sentence Ficathon](http://caramelsilver.livejournal.com/140906.html?format=light) hosted by [caramelsilver](http://caramelsilver.livejournal.com/). The prompt text is the same as the summary, except with a slash instead. :-)

Beatrice is working at a strip club -- behind the bar, not on stage; there's a limit to how much of her body she's willing to have a hundred random men ogle every night -- when a dark-haired woman in a silver half-mask strides past the bouncer, stiff-arming him in the gut when he tries to grab her shoulder. Something about her seems familiar, Beatrice thinks, something caught up in the haze that blurs nearly a year of her life when, so far as the private detective she hired has been able to tell, she vanished off the face of the earth.

The woman looks around, dismissing everyone she sees, until her gaze snags on Beatrice and she strides toward the bar, her coat swirling open to reveal the sword belted to her waist over her jeans and the T-shirt proclaiming _It was a pleasure to burn_. "Oh shit," the bouncer wheezes. "Bea baby, call 911. She's gonna kill us all."

"Vheatrigzh," the woman says, her voice strangely mushy and mangled, and maddeningly almost, almost familiar.

"Do I know you?" Beatrice asks, setting the phone back in its cradle and leaning over the bar without quite realizing what she's doing. "Do you know me?"

"Yezh," the woman says. "Vheatrigzh, khome vish me." She holds out her hand.

When they touch, skin to burning skin, Beatrice remembers.

She hoists herself over the bar and follows Mazikeen out of the silent, shaking, piss-scared room, trailing her mistress like a faithful shadow.

"I'm sorry I forgot," she says. "I won't forget again."

In the white-orange light of the streetlamp outside the club, Mazikeen removes her mask. Both halves of her face smile, and she bends down to meet Beatrice's lips.


End file.
